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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28418652">The Path of Totality</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aethelflead/pseuds/aethelflead'>aethelflead</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Sorry Not Sorry, aethelrik trash, all the things we didn't get to see in the show, astronomy metaphors, brought to you by eclipse trip 2k17, but hopefully you don't think it's trash, i love this ship so much, probably there will be smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:27:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,493</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28418652</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aethelflead/pseuds/aethelflead</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aethelflaed's husband has taken her to the battlefield, where she is captured by the fearsome Danish brothers, Sigefrid and Erik. Unexpectedly, it is her captivity that leads her to the love and freedom that she has so desperately been searching for. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>This is a retelling of Aethelflaed and Erik's love story from their own perspectives. To do justice to their relationship, I have attempted to fill in and flesh out the story of the events surrounding Aethelflaed's capture, the time she spent in Beamfleot, and her subsequent escape. This is mostly based off of the show, but aspects of the books will also be present. </p>
<p>This story has been told many times in many ways, but this is my version; or, watch as the sun and the moon join in a blazing ring of silver star-fire.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aethelflaed Lady of Mercia/Erik Thurgilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Path of Totality</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to Lauren for your unconditional support of me, my creation of this story, and my love of this fandom. Thank you to the TLK and broader fanfiction community for being a welcoming space to share my work. I've written a lot of stories in my time, but this is the first time I've had the courage to post one publicly. I hope you enjoy it. </p>
<p>My cat, Miso, likes to contribute to my stories. For your convenience, I have included his additions here in the author's notes:<br/>54jnnkjk -Miso</p>
<p>R$//ty -Miso</p>
<p>--</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>A flash of lightning burst across the western sky, followed by crashing thunder. Aethelflaed peered out the partially open tent flaps as heavy curtains of rain swept the landscape. She sat very still, trying  unsuccessfully to will herself to stand. She wanted to go to the doorway and drink in the sight of the storm. She wanted to get up, to run, to flee into the center of the tempest and be washed clean by the heavy rain. Once, she would have run into the storm and danced in it, hair unbound and whipping wildly in the wind. Oh, her mother would decry the indignity of it all-- to think, a king’s daughter should be drenched in the storm water like a village urchin-- and Aethelflaed would bear her censure dutifully, with a blank expression on her face and a smile in her heart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But that all felt so far away now, and so Aethelflaed remained seated, and her hair remained orderly, secured in the elaborate braids that befitted a married woman. She felt empty. In the last few months since her marriage to Aethelred, she had felt many things- first hope and joy; then shock, disbelief, and anger; then sadness; and just now, she felt nothing. The nothingness was becoming more frequent of late, and while intellectually Aethelflaed knew it to be preferable to indignation and despair, the empty feeling brought her no relief. And so she sat motionless, allowing herself to float for a while in a sea of her own nothingness, while the storm danced and flashed and trembled outside. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eventually, one of Aethelflaed’s maids noticed the tent flaps were open, and she rushed to close them. The sounds of the storm suddenly dulled, and the change caused Aethelflaed to stir from her reverie and make ready for sleep. At least her husband would not be joining her this night, as he was already on his way to retake Lundene. Upon that realization, Aethelflaed felt her nothingness abate slightly, and just before retiring, she did finally peek out into the storm.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Morning came. The storm had broken in the hours before dawn, and the sunrise sent honey-colored light to shimmer in the raindrops that spangled every surface. Aethelflaed rose early and instructed her maids to plait her hair simply today, leaving her with just two braids that draped in front of her shoulders. The maid, Eadburg, was just finishing, when someone began to scream. Aethelflaed waved Eadburg away and rushed to the doorway of the tent to investigate the commotion. It was Thyra, Uhtred’s sister, who was running through the camp banging a cooking spoon on a large pot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Death!” screamed Thyra as she ran, her flame-colored hair whipping wildly behind her. “Death is coming!”. She was panicked, wild-eyed, feral, and running straight towards Aethelflaed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thyra!” Aethelflaed called, moving to comfort Thyra. She knew that Thyra had at one time been made half-mad by her captivity in the north, and Aethelflaed’s thought that something had driven Thyra back into that madness. But a heartbeat later, Aethelflaed heard the sound of hoofbeats, and realized that Thyra wasn’t mad at all; rather, a hoard of Danes was galloping straight towards the camp. The hoofbeats grew louder and louder until they reverberated like the thunder from the previous night’s storm. Aethelflaed could hear the Danes yelling in their harsh pagan language, and fear overtook her. She froze, icy dread curling in her chest. She was suddenly unable to do anything besides stare at the dark wave of men and metal and chaos that surged towards the camp. She was dimly aware of people around her, fleeing, and of her own household guards taking up their arms to defend her. But she could do nothing; her feet felt rooted to the ground and she stood sill, as if she had turned to stone</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then Thyra reached her; or rather, Thyra barreled into her, almost knocking her to the ground.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Run,” Thyra screamed at her, “to the forest! Go!” Thyra grabbed Aethelflaed’s hand and began to drag her towards the wall of trees behind the camp. Thyra’s impact had broken the spell of fear, and reality rushed back back to Aethelflaed. She ran. Her legs felt stiff at first, both with fear and disuse, and a frisson of dread sparked in her as she realized that she could never outrun mounted warriors. Still, Thyra continued to scream at her to run, and so she did; clumsily, desperately. The women fled haphazardly through the camp, which had erupted into chaos. They were nearly trampled by a spooked horse, and they dodged to their right, only to be cut off by a woman dragging a cart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aethelflaed!” someone yelled, and she instinctively turned to look over her shoulder to see who called her name. She expected to see one of her guards, but to her despair she saw it was no Saxon, but a Dane that called her. They were here for </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She didn’t know if they meant to kill her, or worse, but she didn’t have time to dwell on that. She pushed herself to run faster. She was still grasping Thyra’s hand, and together the two women ran into an empty tent, hoping to lose the men riding behind them. They stumbled through the tent, kicking aside metal cooking pots and bed rolls. Thyra grabbed the canvas at the back of the tent and tore it from the poles with a great ripping sound. They struggled through the makeshift doorway and emerged back into the sunlight. The woods were much closer now, and Aethelflaed felt a glimmer of confidence. They could lose them in the trees. She could run deep into the shadows and climb into the crown of a great oak, and hide there until nightfall. Impelled forward by newfound hope, she scrambled desperately towards the woods, which opened before her like a great maw of shade and thorns and ferns. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the grace of God, they reached the trees. The damp darkness of the forest washed over them, and for a moment Aethelflaed was blind, as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Aethelflaed, let go of my hand,” Thyra urged her, “run!” Thyra shoved Aethelflaed to the left. Aethelflaed lunged forward, losing her grip on Thyra’s hand. Thyra disappeared into the darkness, and suddenly, Aethelflaed was alone.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once, when she had been nine or ten years old, Aethelflaed had gotten lost in the forest. She had been playing with Eoforhild, the daughter of one of their household women. It had been near sunset, and they had strayed too far from the other children and guards, and they had found themselves alone in a swiftly darkening wood. Eoforhild had begun to cry, blubbering about wolves and boar, and other more fearsome beasts that roamed the forests after dark. But to Aethelflaed’s surprise, she found the darkening forest strangely calming. In the waning light, her other senses woke up. She smelled wet earth and peat, damp bark, and recent rain. The woods had grown quiet as the birds quit their songs and insects alighted onto leaves. She had breathed deeply, taking in lungfuls of cold, damp air. She had felt focused, and in contrast to her fearful friend, somehow powerful. This was her father’s forest, she thought, and by extension, hers also. It would not hurt her, she had been sure of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The darkness had allowed her to concentrate only on the few feet that she could see in front of her, and she found that she recognized her surroundings. There had been a log there, crumbling and moss-covered. And before that, they had passed a patch of mushrooms, brilliant scarlet with patches of creamy white. And before the mushrooms, there had been a spring; a cold, clear pool where they had watched bright minnows flash in the shadows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And so, in the deepening twilight, Aethelflaed had traced her path backwards, from the mossy log to the toadstools to the spring, and landmark by landmark, she led herself and Eoferhild back into the clearing where they had been playing with the other household children.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After the incident, Aethelflaed’s mother, Aelswith, had prohibited her from playing in the woods. Of course, Aethelflaed had often snuck away to the forest anyways, but from that day forth, Aelswith maintained that the woods were too dangerous a place for a young princess. But Aethelflaed had learned a very different lesson that day: she had learned that she could find strength among the deep shadows of the trees. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>And now, as she ran headlong into the thickets of alder, oak, and silver birch, she willed that strength to come back. She tried to fight back against her shallow, panicky breaths and once again draw strength from the cool, earthy air. But Aethelflaed had been away from the forest for a long time, and now it abandoned her. The calm did not come. The galloping hoofbeats behind her grew louder, and she felt her stride begin to weaken. Her panic rose higher, and she gasped for breath. A stray root reached from the trunk of a young alder and tripped her. She fell hard onto a bed of dry leaves. She struggled back to her feet and began running again, though she could feel the Danes closing in behind her. Dust stung at her eyes and they teared up, though she wasn’t sure if it was really from the dust or from fear. Her pace, which before had been purposeful, now became reckless and desperate as she crashed through the underbrush. One of her steps came down hard onto a stone, and her knee buckled. She went down again, thorns scraping her skin. She almost stayed down in that thornbush, as a wave of hopelessness overtook her. But somehow, she willed herself up again, and then she was running once more. The Danes were so close now she thought she could feel the hot breath of their horses, but still she ran, dodging this way and that through the tall trunked trees, trying to lose them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She prayed, or at least she tried. In her mind she offered up two desperate words to God: “Help me.” She said them over and over until they became like a monk’s chant. “Help me, help me, help me” she thought, the words pounding in time with her heart. The world fell away. She could hear the Danes behind her, yelling her name threateningly, but it didn’t matter anymore. The only things that existed were herself and the place where she would plant her next footstep. She could not say how long she ran like that; it felt like it could have been hours, but was really probably only a few more moments. Then, she something grabbed her about the waist. She whirled, expecting it to be the arm of a Danish warrior. She grasped for the knife she had taken to carrying in her belt. A beat later, she realized that there was no human arm about her; rather, she had run into the branch of a low hanging oak. A branch! She remembered the plan she had thought of when she and Thyra had first ran for the forest. She could climb up into this massive tree, and stay there. The Danes would see her, of course, but they would be unable to follow her, nor would they be able to compel her to descend. She would stay up there as long as she needed to, and then she would go home. Not to Aethelred, but to her real home, to her father in Wintanceaster. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Aethelflaed leapt to her feet, reaching up for the next branch. But it was too late. The Danes were actually upon her now, and even as she grasped desperately overhead, one of them leapt from his horse and strode towards her. She was dangling from the branch now. The Dane reached around her waist and pulled her towards himself, as she kicked at him. She felt her foot make contact with his shoulder and she shoved hard, hoping to unbalance him. It didn’t work. The Dane wrestled her from the tree and she lost her grip. She screamed and grasped desperately for something, anything, to hold on to, but her hands closed around empty air. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s over,” the Dane said gruffly, in heavily accented English. In her heart, Aethelflaed knew that to be true, but still, she fought. She writhed in his grasp, trying to break free. She did not know what these men intended to do with her, or to her, but she did not intend to find out. The Dane had wrapped both of his arms entirely around her, pinning her hands to her sides. She tried to wrench an arm free, but only succeeded in annoying him and tiring herself further. The Dane said something angrily to his companions, in his harsh and guttural tongue. One responded back, his tone serious, but calm. Aethelflaed thrashed again, hoping to break free. She was unsuccessful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now the Dane was dragging her towards his horse, his arms encircling her so tightly that she could scarcely breathe. He smelled bad, like soured ale and sweat. The Dane slung her up and over his horse like a saddlebag, knocking the wind from her. She could feel the fight leaving her now, as she lay limply across the horse’s back. She was tired, of course, and also ashamed. These men were treating her like an object, a battle prize. Her cheeks flared in embarrassment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of the other Danes- the one who had spoken more calmly a moment ago- said something to her captor. Her captor replied gruffly, clearly still frustrated, but the calm Dane- he appeared to be in charge- responded sharply. Whatever was said must’ve concerned Aethelflaed, because her captor grasped the sleeve of her dress and roughly yanked her to a seated position. Aethelflaed instinctively pulled her legs into a position more suitable for riding. She looked over at the lead Dane and he nodded to her, and then let out a small, sharp word. Her captor kicked his horse, and the whole party jerked into motion.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Where they were going, Aethelflaed did not know. She wriggled slightly, trying to see if she could break her captor’s hold, but his arms held her fast. Whatever was to happen to her now, she had no ability to change. She went limp, neither fighting nor consenting as they trotted through the forest. Not wanting to think about what might happen to her next, not wanting to smell the sweaty Dane behind her, nor feel the soreness of the saddle beneath her, Aethelflaed went away from herself. She was getting good at it now; after all, she practiced it every night that Aethelred came to her bed. She let her thoughts become floating and formless, and the discomfort, shame, and fear faded. The nothingness took her once more.</span>
</p>
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